


of the cyclamen and the leaf of the rose

by peupeugunn



Series: ghost towns in the ocean [2]
Category: Alex Rider - Anthony Horowitz
Genre: Ghosts, Temporary Character Death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-09
Updated: 2019-11-09
Packaged: 2021-01-26 01:17:52
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 612
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21365788
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/peupeugunn/pseuds/peupeugunn
Summary: He looks down at his non-corporeal form, which seems almost washed out in comparison to the rest of reality, like a really bad watercolour painting, and then back at not-Julius. Two years ago, he'd said, "it's just like in Tom and Jerry." Now, he swallows uneasily.
Series: ghost towns in the ocean [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1116636
Kudos: 17





	of the cyclamen and the leaf of the rose

**Author's Note:**

> I don't know where this came from or what half of it even means but I was listening to music at three in the morning and got really sad and wrote this so sorry, I guess?

Alex opens his eyes to a white ceiling. The air is cold and heavy, settling into his chest like a thick, familiar blanket. The sounds he hears seem distant, rhythmic beeping and voices almost seem to float through the air lazily. He sits up slowly, feeling relaxed for the first time in years. It almost surprises him, his shoulder doesn't throb like it usually does when he wakes up, he can breathe easily, his fingers don't ache. 

The first thing Alex concludes from this isn't this painkiller is the shit, where have they been hiding this for the last two years? It's more along the lines of ah, I'm dead again. 

(The first time, he'd run for days, searching for Ian, for his parents, for Jack. He'd found no one, and then, he'd come back.)

It's the first time he's died since Cairo, and he looks down at his body with a deep sense of uneasiness and déjà vu. Add a bullet hole in the head, take away the raw burns littering his chest, and he would have thought he was looking at Julius Grief's corpse again. He looks down at his non-corporeal form, which seems almost washed out in comparison to the rest of reality, like a really bad watercolour painting, and then back at not-Julius. Two years ago, he'd said, "it's just like in Tom and Jerry." Now, he swallows uneasily. 

Alex doesn't think about finding Jack or his parents or Ian this time. He's long since learnt that he's alone in every way. He doesn't think of haunting Blunt like the bastard deserves—ghost movies are way off, he'd found. He simply stands there as the doctors and nurses rush around his corpse, watches them try like no one else ever did, crying out words he can't hear over the ringing in his ears steadily rising. The pit in his stomach gapes wide open, ready, eager to consume him whole. He's never stayed, never watched for this long.

The flurry around him dies down, all the adults breathing hard, expressions of regret flitting across their faces. One of them looks at a watch and says something, and they all seem to deflate, stepping back. Alex steps forward—his shoulder passes through a nurse and he shivers at the sheer wrongness of it—and looks at his body. He forces the image of Julius out of his head, of all the times he's looked in the mirror and felt like scratching at his face until he can see what's underneath, can know for sure that he's Alex. He looks past all those little incidents and sees a sixteen year old boy on a hospital bed covered in burns and bruises and cuts and too many scars. He looks until his eyes burn and his chest aches and his fingers tremble and he doesn't want to look anymore, doesn't want to face what he was turned into by people who were supposed to protect him. 

He reaches out with a shaky hand, and his fingers pass right through his own chest. Swallowing the lump in his throat, he climbs onto the bed, ignoring the coldness flooding his limbs, and settling his non-corporeal form in his corporeal one. He screws his eyes shut, and thinks, maybe this time it'll be better. 

When he opens his eyes, the air is just as cold, but the sounds are louder, people shouting excitedly, hands—cold and covered in smooth latex gloves—fluttering across his skin. A cough escapes his lips, then another, and another, and he can't stop and it burns, and he feels like screaming. The most he can manage is a slight sob.


End file.
